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‘But General Schellenberg gave us express instructions to …’
‘Don’t argue. I’ve no intention of losing this man now. Do as I say and follow me,’ and Berger led the way towards the café where they could hear guitar music.
Inside, the place was light and airy in spite of the fact that dusk was falling. The bar top was marble, bottles ranged against an old-fahioned mirror behind it. The walls were whitewashed and covered with bullfighting posters. The bartender, squat and ugly with one white eye, wore an apron and soiled shirt and sat at a high stool reading a newspaper. Four other men played poker at another table, swarthy, fierce-looking gypsies. A younger man leaned against the wall and fingered a guitar.
The rest of the place was empty except for Devlin who sat at a table against the far wall reading a small book, a glass of beer at his hand. The door creaked open and Berger stepped in, Eggar at his back. The guitarist stopped playing, and all conversation died as Berger stood just inside the door, death come to visit them. Berger moved past the men who were playing cards. Eggar went closer as well, standing to the left.
Devlin glanced up, smiling amiably and picked up the glass of beer in his left hand. ‘Liam Devlin?’ Berger asked.
‘And who might you be?’
‘I am Sturmbannführer Horst Berger of the Gestapo.’
‘Jesus and why didn’t they send the Devil? I’m on reasonable terms there.’
‘You’re smaller than I thought you’d be,’ Berger told him. ‘I’m not impressed.’
Devlin smiled again. ‘I get that all the time, son.’
‘I must ask you to come with us.’
‘And me only halfway through my book. The Midnight Court and in Irish. Would you believe I found it on a stall in the flea market only last week?’
‘Now!’ Berger said.
Devlin drank some more beer. ‘You remind me of a medieval fresco I saw on a church in Donegal once. People running in terror from a man in a hood. Everyone he touched got the Black Death, you see.’
‘Eggar!’ Berger commanded.
Devlin fired through the table top, chipping the wall beside the door. Eggar tried to get the pistol out of his pocket. The Walther Devlin had been holding on his knee appeared above the table now and he fired again, shooting Eggar through the right hand. The police attaché cried out, falling against the wall and one of the gypsies grabbed for his gun as he dropped it.
Berger’s hand went inside his jacket, reaching for the Mauser he carried in a shoulder holster there. Devlin tossed the beer in his face and upended the table against him, the edge catching the German’s shins so that he staggered forward. Devlin rammed the muzzle of the Walther into his neck and reached inside Berger’s coat, removing the Mauser which he tossed on to the bar.
‘Present for you, Barbosa.’ The barman grinned and picked the Mauser up. The gypsies were on their feet, two of them with knives in their hands. ‘Lucky for you you picked on the sort of place where they don’t call the peelers,’ Devlin said. ‘A real bad lot, these fellas. Even the man in the hood doesn’t count for much with them. Barbosa there used to meet him most afternoons in the bullrings in Spain. That’s where he got the horn in the eye.’
The look on Berger’s face was enough. Devlin slipped the book into his pocket, stepped around him, holding the Walther against his leg and reached for Eggar’s hand. ‘A couple of knuckles gone. You’re going to need a doctor.’ He slipped the Walther into his pocket and turned to go.
Berger’s iron control snapped. He ran at him, hands outstretched. Devlin swayed, his right foot flicking forward, catching Berger under the left kneecap. As the German doubled over, he raised a knee in his face, sending him back against the bar. Berger pulled himself up, hanging on to the marble top and the gypsies started to laugh.
Devlin shook his head, ‘Jesus, son, but I’d say you should find a different class of work, the both of you,’ and he turned and went out.
When Schellenberg went into the small medical room, Eggar was sitting at the desk while the Legation’s doctor taped his right hand.
‘How is he?’ Schellenberg asked.
‘He’ll live.’ The doctor finished and cut off the end of the tape neatly. ‘He may well find it rather stiffer in future. Some knuckle damage.’
‘Can I have a moment?’ The doctor nodded and went out and Schellenberg lit a cigarette and sat on the edge of the desk. ‘I presume you found Devlin?’
‘Hasn’t the Herr General been told?’ Eggar asked.
‘I haven’t spoken to Berger yet. All I heard was that you’d come back in a taxi the worse for wear. Now tell me exactly what happened.’
Which Eggar did for as the pain increased, so did his anger. ‘He wouldn’t listen, Herr General. Had to do it his way.’
Schellenberg put a hand on his shoulder. ‘Not your fault, Eggar. I’m afraid Major Berger sees himself as his own man. Time he was taught a lesson.’
‘Oh, Devlin took care of that,’ Eggar said. ‘When I last saw it, the Major’s face didn’t look too good.’
‘Really?’ Schellenberg smiled. ‘I didn’t think it could look worse.’
Berger stood stripped to the waist in front of the wash-basin in the small bedroom he had been allocated and examined his face in the mirror. A bruise had already appeared around his left eye and his nose was swollen. Schellenberg came in, closed the door and leaned against it.
‘So, you disobeyed my orders.’
Berger said, ‘I acted for the best. I didn’t want to lose him.’
‘And he was better than you are. I warned you about that.’
There was rage on Berger’s face in the mirror as he touched his cheek. ‘That little Irish swine. I’ll fix him next time.’
‘No you won’t because from now on I’ll handle things myself,’ Schellenberg said. ‘Unless, of course, you’d prefer me to report to the Reichsführer that we lost this man because of your stupidity.’
Berger swung round. ‘General Schellenberg, I protest.’
‘Get your feet together when you speak to me, Sturmbannführer,’ Schellenberg snapped. Berger did as he was told, the iron discipline of the SS taking control. ‘You took an oath on joining the SS. You vowed total obedience to your Führer and to those appointed to lead you. Is this not so?’
‘Jawohl, Brigadeführer.’
‘Excellent,’ Schellenberg told him. ‘You’re remembering. Don’t forget again. The consequences could be disastrous.’ He moved to the door, opened it and shook his head. ‘You look awful, Major. Try and do something about your face before going down to dinner.’
He went out and Berger turned back to the mirror. ‘Bastard!’ he said softly.
Liam Devlin sat at the piano in the Lights of Lisbon, a cigarette dangling from the corner of his mouth, a glass of wine on one side. It was ten o’clock, only two hours till Christmas Day and the café was crowded and cheerful. He was playing a number called ‘Moonlight on the Highway’, a particular favourite, very slow, quite haunting. He noticed Schellenberg the moment he entered, not because he recognized him, only the kind of man he was. He watched him go to the bar and get a glass of wine, looked away, aware that he was approaching.
Schellenberg said, ‘“Moonlight on the Highway”. I like that. One of Al Bowlly’s greatest numbers,’ he added, mentioning the name of the man who had been England’s most popular crooner until his death.
‘Killed in the London Blitz, did you know that?’ Devlin asked. ‘Would never go down to the cellars like everyone else when the air raid siren went. They found him dead in bed from the bomb blast.’
‘Unfortunate,’ Schellenberg said.
‘I suppose it depends which side you’re on.’
Devlin moved into ‘A Foggy Day in London Town’ and Schellenberg said, ‘You are a man of many talents, Mr Devlin.’
‘A passable bar room piano, that’s all,’ Devlin told him. ‘Fruits of a misspent youth.’ He reached for his wine, continuing to play one-handed. ‘And who might you be, old son?’
‘My name is Schellenberg – Walter Schellenberg. You may have heard of me?’
‘I certainly have.’ Devlin grinned. ‘I lived long enough in Berlin for that. General now, is it, and the SD at that? Are you something to do with the two idiots who had a try at me earlier this evening?’
‘I regret that, Mr Devlin. The man you shot is the police attaché at the Legation. The other, Major Berger, is Gestapo. He’s with me only because the Reichsführer ordered it.’
‘Jesus, are we into old Himmler again? Last time I saw him he didn’t exactly approve of me.’
‘Well he needs you now.’
‘For what?’
‘To go to England for us, Mr Devlin. To London, to be more precise.’
‘No thanks. I’ve worked for German Intelligence twice in this war. The first time in Ireland where I nearly got my head blown off.’ He tapped the bullet scar on the side of his forehead.
‘And the second time in Norfolk you took a bullet in the right shoulder and only got away by the skin of your teeth, leaving Kurt Steiner behind.’
‘Ah, so you know about that?’
‘Operation Eagle? Oh, yes.’
‘A good man, the Colonel. He wasn’t much of a Nazi …’
‘Did you hear what happened to him?’
‘Sure – they brought Max Radl into the hospital I was in in Holland after his heart attack. He got some sort of report from intelligence sources in England that Steiner was killed at a place called Meltham House trying to get at Churchill.’
‘Two things wrong about that,’ Schellenberg told him. ‘Two things Radl didn’t know. It wasn’t Churchill that weekend. He was on his way to the Tehran conference. It was his double. Some music hall actor.’
‘Jesus, Joseph and Mary!’ Devlin stopped playing.
‘And more importantly, Kurt Steiner didn’t die. He’s alive and well and at present in the Tower of London which is why I want you to go to England for me. You see I’ve been entrusted with the task of getting him safely back to the Reich and I’ve little more than three weeks to do it in.’
Frear had entered the café a couple of minutes earlier and had recognized Schellenberg instantly. He retreated to a side booth where he summoned a waiter, ordered a beer, and watched as the two men went out into the garden at the rear. They sat at a table and looked down at the lights of the shipping in the Tagus.
‘General, you’ve lost the war,’ Devlin said. ‘Why do you keep trying?’
‘Oh, we all have to do the best we can until the damn thing is over. As I keep saying, it’s difficult to jump off the merry-go-round once it’s in motion. A game we play.’
‘Like the old sod with the white hair in the end booth watching us now,’ Devlin observed.
Schellenberg looked round casually. ‘And who might he be?’
‘Pretends to be in the port business. Name of Frear. My friends tell me he’s military attaché at the Brit Embassy here.’
‘Indeed.’ Schellenberg carried on calmly. ‘Are you interested?’
‘Now why would I be?’
‘Money. You received twenty thousand pounds for your work on Operation Eagle paid into a Geneva account.’
‘And me stuck here without two pennies to scratch myself with.’
‘Twenty-five thousand pounds, Mr Devlin. Paid anywhere you wish.’
Devlin lit another cigarette and leaned back. ‘What do you want him for? Why go to all the trouble?’
‘A matter of security is involved.’
Devlin laughed harshly. ‘Come off it, General. You want me to go jumping out of Dorniers again at five thousand feet in the dark like last time over Ireland and you try to hand me that kind of bollocks.’
‘All right.’ Schellenberg put up a hand defensively. ‘There’s a meeting in France on the twenty-first of January. The Führer, Rommel, Canaris and Himmler. The Führer doesn’t know about Operation Eagle. The Reichsführer would like to produce Steiner at that meeting. Introduce him.’
‘And why would he want to do that?’
‘Steiner’s mission ended in failure, but he led German soldiers in battle on English soil. A hero of the Reich.’
‘And all that old balls?’
‘Added to which the Reichsführer and Admiral Canaris do not always see eye to eye. To produce Steiner.’ He shrugged. ‘The fact that his escape had been organized by the SS …’
‘Would make Canaris look bad?’ Devlin shook his head. ‘What a crew. I don’t much care for any of them or that old crow Himmler’s motives, but Kurt Steiner’s another thing. A great man, that one. But the bloody Tower of London …’
He shook his head and Schellenberg said, ‘They won’t keep him there. My guess is they’ll move him to one of their London safe houses.’
‘And how can you find that out?’
‘We have an agent in London working out of the Spanish Embassy.’
‘Can you be sure he’s not a double?’
‘Pretty sure in this case.’ Devlin sat there frowning and Schellenberg said, ‘Thirty thousand pounds.’ He smiled. ‘I’m good at my job, Mr Devlin. I’ll prepare a plan for you that will work.’
Devlin nodded. ‘I’ll think about it.’ He stood up.
‘But time is of the essence. I need to get back to Berlin.’
‘And I need time to think, and it’s Christmas. I’ve promised to go up country to a bull ranch a friend of mine called Barbosa runs. Used to be a great torero in Spain where they like sharp horns. I’ll be back in three days.’
‘But Mr Devlin,’ Schellenberg tried again.
‘If you want me, you’ll have to wait.’ Devlin clapped him on the shoulder. ‘Come on now, Walter, Christmas in Lisbon? Lights, music, pretty girls? At this present moment they’ve got a blackout in Berlin and I bet it’s snowing. Which would you rather have?’
Schellenberg started to laugh helplessly and behind them, Frear got up and went out.
Urgent business had kept Dougal Munro at his office at SOE Headquarters on the morning of Christmas Day. He was about to leave when Jack Carter limped in. It was just after noon.
Munro said, ‘I hope it’s urgent, Jack. I’m due for Christmas lunch with friends at the Garrick.’
‘I thought you’d want to know about this, sir.’ Carter held up a signal flimsy. ‘From Major Frear, our man in Lisbon. Friend Devlin.’
